


KVP

by alcatraz



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9143848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcatraz/pseuds/alcatraz
Summary: The V in Kent V Parson totally stands for 'Victory', but right now it also stands for 'Very possibly got hammered last night and propositioned both his ex and his ex’s new boyfriend for a threesome'.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M801](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M801/gifts).



> this is a pinch hit for M801 - I hope you like it!

Kent wakes up to a cat stepping on his face. He’s lying on the floor in someone else’s kitchen, shoes still on but jacket half off. His mouth tastes like something died in it. He groans and tries to get up, but just ineffectually flops over onto his back. Someone has covered him with a blanket and helpfully left a glass of water on the floor next to his face, but as he thinks about sitting up to drink it, the cat steps in that too. 

 

“No! Bad!”

 

The cat yowls as it is picked up in one massive hand and whisked away. Kent looks up. Both the hand and the cat appear to belong to Alexi Mashkov.

 

What.

 

“Good morning, Kent Parson!” Mashkov says in what is frankly an unnecessarily loud voice for this early in the morning. “How you feeling after last night?”

 

Kent takes stock. Last night. The Ace’s second game in Providence for the season, and they’d lost by a goal in the shootout, which was always the worst way to lose. Kent remembers that he’d had solid plans to sulk in his hotel room with a bottle of rosé and bad reality TV, but clearly that had not happened. He bypasses Mashkov’s question. “Why am I in your house?” he asks instead. He tries to fix Mashkov with his best suspicious glare, but the whole effect is kind of ruined by the fact that he is still lying on the kitchen floor covered in a blanket. The blanket has ducks on it. He’s not sure if that makes things better or worse.

 

“I’m closest to bar!” Mashkov says, which really doesn’t clear anything up at all. “After karaoke, you too drunk to make it back to hotel so I say you can stay here! You not make it to guest room though.”

 

“Karaoke,” Kent says. That does explain a few things. “I remember— was there a guy with no pants at the bar? Or maybe no shirt?”

 

Mashkov grins. “Neither! Was Jack’s friend from school, no idea how he not kicked out.”

 

Kent has a vague memory of dedicating Careless Whisper to Jack’s ass. “I didn’t sing, did I?” he asks, despite himself. He's not sure he wants to know.

 

“Was very moving,” Alexi assures him. “Poots cried.”

 

Kent attempts to sit up, struggling against the blanket, and manages to prop himself up against the fridge. “Who is Poots? And seriously, why am I in your house?”

 

“Poots is baby rookie who cannot handle karaoke either,” Mashkov says, gesturing across his living room to the couch, which definitely has someone passed out on it. “And you here because we friends now. I not make you go back to hotel alone when you too drunk to not puke in taxi!”

 

“Friends,” says Kent blankly. He was pretty sure Mashkov hated him. “You think I’m a rat, how are we friends?”

 

Mashkov shakes his head. “Everyone want to win on the ice,” he says, “is not mean you are rat off the ice.”

 

Kent is weirdly touched by this. “Thanks, man.”

 

“Also,” Mashkov beams, “We are united in our love for best show, Great British Bake Off! We are bros now, Kent Parson!”

 

 

This is the most surreal thing Kent has ever woken up to, and he literally wakes up in Vegas on a daily basis.

 

 

 

_\- 12 hours ago -_

 

 

 

Shootouts are always the fucking worst. They’re such a gamble. The Aces are 1-5 on the season in shootouts, which is a waste of five points. He’s not going to let himself be bitter about it though, it was a hard fought game, the boys gave it a hundred percent and got pucks to the net— he could use any one of a number of post-game interview sound bites which sound cliché but are actually true.

 

Kent is waiting outside the home team’s locker room. He’s not sure why. He and Jack haven’t spoken since his disastrous trip to Samwell, outside of a brief text conversation after Jack’s first game.

 

“ _congrats, zimms_ ,” he had said, after agonising for two hours about his phrasing because he is absolutely a fifteen year old girl.

 

“ _Thank you_ ,” Jack had replied, after another two hours that were somehow even more agonising than the first.

 

After three months of opening the text thread up whenever he’d been drinking and trying to think of what else he could have said, he’d deleted the whole thing and Jack’s number too. It hadn’t helped.

 

“JACK!”

 

Kent looks up to see what looks like half a hockey team thundering past him. He thinks it must be Jack’s friends from school — this is confirmed when Jack emerges from the locker room only to be tackled flat by a guy with no shoes on and a majestic moustache. He also kind of recognises the small Vietnamese girl who’d destroyed him at beer pong. Laura or Lana or something. Lardo? Lardo.

 

“Bro,” she says, holding out her fist.

 

“Bro,” he nods back. He fist bumps her. The beer pong bond is sacred. They stand in comfortable silence for a moment while the rest of them congratulate Jack for the game — hugging, back-slapping, hair-ruffling — all told, more physical contact from a group of people than Kent’s ever seen Jack handle in his life.

 

He and Jack make eye contact as Jack is smothered into yet another hug by an enormous blonde guy who appears to be wearing cut-off sweatpants and it’s— somehow not weird. Jack smiles at him ruefully and Kent can’t help but grin back.

 

“Parson, quit staring,” Lardo says mildly.

 

He snaps his eyes over to her, but her face gives nothing away.

 

“We’re all going out after this,” she says, in the exact same tone of voice. “You should come.”

 

Kent frowns. “I don’t want to get all up in your reunion or whatever.”

 

“Nah, I think some of the Falconers are coming too. Mashkov and his rookie,” she says, which is not actually better.

 

“But—”

 

“You should come,” she repeats. “You’re coming. It’s not like you’re doing anything else tonight.” She raises an eyebrow at him and Kent is suddenly sure she knows exactly what his earlier plan for the night had been and is judging him for it.

 

"Yeah bro," he says, trying to sound like his heart isn't beating out of his chest. "Wouldn't miss it."

Lardo raises her other eyebrow. Kent knows she isn't fooled by him in the slightest, which is somehow kind of comforting. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The karaoke bar is somehow exactly what Kent was expecting. It’s a pokey little hole in the wall downtown, and they're the only customers in there apart from three women in their thirties who have monopolised the microphone to sing LeeAnn Rimes for the past hour and a half. As one of the women informs the room at large that life does, in fact, go on, Kent tries his level best to drown himself in his beer. It doesn’t work.

 

He’s crammed into the corner of their booth, wedged between Mashkov the enormous Russian and a short blonde boy who is cuddled up to Jack in a way that is far more than friendly. Jack calls him “Bitty” like it’s a benediction. Kent wants to vomit. Like, metaphorically but also literally. The beer was probably not a good idea.

 

He’s tired from the game, kind of drunk and feeling sorry for himself, so he does what he always does in situations like this. He swallows the hurt and start talking loudly about the first thing to come to mind, which happens to be the three seasons of Great British Bake off he’s DVR’d to watch once he gets home from the road trip — but this time it actually works. It turns out the blonde boy’s name is Eric. Eric has a very strong southern accent and equally strong opinions about how Chetna on season five absolutely had been robbed, oh my goodness Kent, really she should have made the final three at _least_.

 

“Look, give me your number,” Eric declares. “We have got to discuss this further.”

 

Kent dutifully punches his number into Eric’s phone, saving it as YA BOY KVP because he has a vibe to uphold. As he passes the phone back, he notices that the reason Eric only takes it with one hand is that his other is under the table, fingers firmly interlinked with Jack’s. It’s sickeningly adorable.

 

“I need to piss,” he announces to the table. “Some of you fuckers better let me out of this booth or its gonna go all over your shoes.”

 

“Oh, same,” says Eric brightly over the ensuing clatter of large drunk hockey players trying to move out of the way without falling over, “I’ll come too!” He frowns back at the table, where Lardo already has Mashkov’s rookie in a headlock. “Y’all better behave till I get back,” he says. Lardo sheepishly pats the rookie on the head. Jack’s laughing with his head thrown back, actually laughing and Kent can’t—

 

Well. He really does have to piss.

 

He follows Eric to the bathroom which thankfully turns out to have single stalls. He pisses, flushes, then sits down on the toilet, head in his hands. He needs a moment, unhygienic as that moment may have to be. He hears the tap run as Eric washes his hands and waits for him to leave. He doesn’t.

 

There’s a tentative tap at the stall door. “Kent?” Eric asks, “You doing okay in there? Are you going to be sick? I can go get you some water if—”

 

“—Nah man, I’m all good,” Kent interrupts, unlocking the door and making a beeline for the sinks. Eric has to awkwardly duck out of his way. Kent squints at the taps. There appear to be four of them. “You know what,” he continues, full of the courage of too much bad American beer and something the guy with no shoes swore was called a Swawesome Samwell Shot of Swag but really just tasted like gin and bad decisions, “you and Zimms—”

 

Eric visibly winces.

 

“No, No!” Kent says hastily, “I just wanted to say you guys seem really good. Like. Really.” He stares at his hands in the sink. Probably he should turn the taps off at some point. “I’m not so good with the whole heartfelt sentiment shit,” he says, fully aware that he is being drunk and maudlin, “but he looks so _happy_.”

 

“I know,” Eric smiles, ducking his head a little. Kent wants to ruffle his hair.

 

“You’re much better for him than I was,” Kent says sadly and oh wow, it really is time for him to shut up and go home. He soaps his hands again just so he has something to do other than look at himself in the bathroom mirror and re-evaluate all the life choices that brought him to this embarrassing shit-show of a conversation.

 

Eric puts a hand on his shoulder and meets his eyes in the mirror. “Don’t sell yourself short, honey,” he says. “You guys were kids. It wasn’t on you to get him to sort himself out.”

 

Kent blinks back the sudden wetness in his eyes. This is really not where he thought his night was going. “Well, if you ever need a hand with him, you know who to call,” he quips, aiming for nonchalant and cool and decidedly not hitting the target.

 

Eric goes a sudden and violent shade of pink.

 

Oh. _Oh._

 

“Not— not like that, I didn’t mean—” Kent stutters, tripping over his words in his haste to get them out of his mouth. ( _Except,_ a tiny voice in the back of his head says, _he did mean, and doesn’t Eric’s hand feel good on his shoulder, strong and warm_—)

 

“I’m going to go back to the team,” Eric says gently. “I’ll text you tomorrow — you haven’t seen the season with Diana Beard yet, so there’ll be a lot to fill you in on.” He leaves Kent with a final pat on the shoulder and a soft smile.

 

Kent glares at himself balefully in the bathroom mirror. The door to the third toilet stall bangs open, startling him enough that he clips his shoulder against the hand-dryer. The dryer retaliates with a half-hearted blast of hot air at the back of his neck, which really doesn’t calm him down at all.

 

“Sup brah,” says the moustache that has emerged from the toilet. Kent is peripherally aware that the moustache must be attached to a person, but he isn’t entirely sure. “What are you getting up to with Eric and Jack?”

 

Kent bristles. “I’m not trying to home-wreck or anything,” he tells the moustache hotly.

 

“Ahh, I see,” says the moustache, nodding. “Polyamory is a beautiful thing.”

 

There’s a rushing in Kent’s ears as he processes this. His heart is pounding and his feet are cold. His feet are wet. The rushing is actually coming from the overflowing sink, which is soaking his shoes.

 

“You should probably turn off those taps, bro,” the moustache says helpfully.

 

 

 

_ \- now - _

 

 

 

Kent’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he extracts it from his pants with some difficulty. He swipes it open to a conversation with someone called EEEEEEEE-BITZZ that he does not recognise at all.

 

“ _hi kent, hope you’re feeling all right this morning - jack is terribly hungover!!_ ’ the new message reads. ‘ _we’d love to catch up with you before you leave if you’re feeling up to it <3_”

 

As Kent stares at the message, at the fucking _heart emoji what the fuck_ , a new message appears.

 

“ _this is eric, by the way!_ ” it says. “ _if you were just drunk don't worry about it!! we all say silly things n we can forget about the whole thing if you’d rather!!_ ” The message is followed by four blushing-face emojis and a small wine glass.

 

Kent scrolls up the chat and forces down a feeling of impending doom.

 

The first message in the thread reads, “ _u n jack r cute as shit. if if neither of you were taken by each other i’d hit on either one of u. or both of u._ ” Kent blinks at his phone, deeply unimpressed. He scrolls down. “ _this is kent btw_ ,” the next message reads, in case he was still harbouring any hope that he was just reading about someone else’s train wreck of a life.

 

“ _oh you’re too kind <3,_” Eric had replied.

 

“ _legit tho,_ ” drunk Kent had apparently messaged back, “ _hit a bro up if u guys r ever in vegas, we can go out on the town. oooor just stay in._ ” This was followed by six helpful eggplant emojis in case Eric had somehow managed to miss Kent’s point. Kent rests his head against the kitchen table. Maybe it would have been best to stay on the floor. Maybe he could have stayed on the floor for the rest of his life.

 

“Cheer up, Kent Parson,” Mashkov says, gently bopping him in the side of the head with a mug of coffee. “Last night not so bad! You only grab Zimmboni’s butt twice, maybe three times.”

 

Kent does not know which part of that statement to attack first. He takes the coffee and settles for the safe option. “ _Zimmboni?_ ” he asks. “Like, Jack actually lets you guys call him that?”

 

Mashkov ignores Kent’s spirited attempt to change the subject. “Is magnificent butt. Nobody blames you,” he says kindly.

 

Kent turns back to his phone, which is actually less upsetting than this conversation. He’s tempted to lie to Eric and say he doesn’t have time to meet up before he flies out, even though the team's plane doesn’t actually leave until 8. He starts typing out a polite apology when another text lights up his screen — this one from a number he hasn’t got saved, but has had memorised since he was 16.

 

“ _meet 4_ _coffee before you go to the airport? : - )_ ” it asks.

 

Like Kent could say no to both of them.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

This is the most painfully awkward moment in Kent’s recent memory.

 

“Can you pass the sugar, Kent?” Eric asks brightly.

 

Kent can. He passes the fucking sugar like a champ. They’ve been in this diner for fifteen minutes and the only other words any of them have spoken were stilted hellos when they walked in and Jack ordering coffee for the three of them in a slightly strangled tone of voice five minutes later. Kent wants to die.

 

“Okay, this is just silly,” says Eric decisively. Jack whips his head up, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights of a freight train.

 

“Yeah, all right,” Kent sighs. “I want to apologise for last night — I know I was inappropriate and got a bit out of hand, and I—”

 

“Wait, what?” asks Eric. “That’s not — what?”

 

Kent fiddles with a sugar packet. “I mean, if you didn't want me to, like, say sorry for hitting on Eric and nearly flooding the bathroom and grabbing Zimms by the butt, which is something I did, apparently—”

 

“No, no,” says Eric, agitated, “that’s not what this is at all!”

 

Kent is genuinely baffled. “Isn’t it?” 

 

“Well,” Jack says quietly, “we thought this could maybe be a date.”

 

Kent suddenly sees last night's conversation with a disembodied moustache in the bar bathroom in a whole new light. “You mean, like, all three of us? Together?”

 

“I haven’t met someone I liked as much as you since — well, since I met Jack.” Eric stirs more sugar into his coffee, not meeting his eyes. “And Jack’s talked about you before—”

 

Jack grins sheepishly. “I did love you,” he says, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. “Out of all the ways I was fucked up back then, that was never the problem.”

 

“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation in a coffee shop,” Kent says weakly.

 

Eric takes one of his hands and Jack presses a foot against his ankle under the table. He feels surrounded.

 

He feels like he might be home.

**Author's Note:**

> [ **the diana beard scandal**](https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/2014/aug/28/great-british-bake-off-ian-watters-speaks-diana-beard), for the uninformed. possibly the most dramatic event to ever take place on british television.


End file.
